Red Cross (3)
A flamethrower.
Ordinarily, it was the kind of thing you only found in warehouses stocked with military supplies. But a Crafter could build one himself — and that set the class apart from every other. So long as the materials were on hand, and so long as there was someone willing to use the thing, a Crafter could field overwhelming firepower against the monsters from the earliest stages of the game.
Take a Sharpshooter, for example. Even if he managed to get his hands on a high-powered weapon, the hard limits of his Strength kept him from stacking heavy armor, so he shied away from close-range fights. Low Stamina forced him into stealth. A Crafter, on the other hand — no matter how trash his own stats were — only needed to arm his stronger companions to the teeth.
"Alright."
Of course, it still had its limits compared to a military-grade flamethrower. The air pump was a jury-rigged job, so the range was relatively short. The fuel tank's capacity was nothing to write home about, either. It was, after all, a makeshift flamethrower.
"…"
Without a word, Sarah handed over the lighter she had taken apart for me, then fled back the way she had come, her face scarlet. Last night came flooding back — the way she had sprawled across me with her whole body. Tired or not, flattening a man like that was a little much.
Click, creak, snick.
I fixed the igniter I had stripped from the lighter onto the end of the nozzle, then tried the triggers one after another.
Pull the first trigger, and—
Pssshhh.
—it spat fuel.
Pull the second, and—
Tick-tick-tick-tick.
—it lit the stream. That was the idea, anyway.
What remained was whether the fuel tank would actually push oil the way it was supposed to. And…
"Hyunwoo."
A voice filtered through a gas mask from right behind me. Mr. James, rubber gloves on both hands, reeked of oil.
"The napalm's ready. How's the flamethrower?"
"I just finished the first prototype myself."
I already knew the recipe for napalm, but James — with his military service behind him — apparently knew the method as well. Styrofoam and gasoline. Back in Korea, during the old street riots, people used to mix all kinds of additives into Molotov cocktails and lob them at the police. America, of course, had poured the stuff over Vietnam by the barrel.
"So — want to try it right away?"
"No. I'd rather not rush it. Too dangerous. If it's a dud, it could go up in our faces."
"How are you going to test it, then?"
"I'll fill it with water first instead of fuel. Check for leaks, see if it pushes the load properly, make sure it's safe while firing… a whole list of things to verify."
I slung the fuel tank onto my back and headed for the showers. Once I set it down, I filled it to the brim with water, then wiped it carefully with a towel.
"Hmm."
I went through three towels, drying every seam, set the tank on the dry floor, and pressed a sheet of tissue paper against it. I checked every corner, prodding and pressing, glancing at the pressure gauge I had mounted. No leaks, thankfully.
Time to fire it.
I hoisted the tank onto my back again and stood — managed to stand.
"Hooo."
All that abuse I had put my body through was finally paying off. I could not guarantee a sprint, but at least I could keep myself upright.
"Good… then."
I aimed at the wall and lightly squeezed the first trigger.
Shhhrrraaak. Splat.
The water hit the wall cleanly. With every pull of the trigger came a mild kick, and the thrashing stream emptied the tank in short order.
James and Sarah, watching from the side, rapped the tank a couple of times and nodded.
"At this rate you're going to build us a tank next."
Honestly, an armored train was not out of the question. That was a Crafter's job. Other people modified knives and guns over and over to kill the monsters nesting in and around the bunker; a Crafter built armored trains, suicide trains, tanks — and if the resources and know-how were there, even repaired helicopters and put them back in the air.
"Take this fuel tank to Mr. Matthew. Tell him he can use as many towels as he needs — the most important thing is drying the inside thoroughly. Have him use the air tank in my room as well. Every last drop of moisture has to come out."
"And once it's dry, we head out?"
"That's right."
The fire-resistant suits had been stored in the same place as the fire axes and the air tanks. I had already wound tough tape around them so they would not tear if something bit down, and later I planned to bolt armor plates on as well. Add a gas mask and a helmet with a ballistic visor, and you had heavy infantry ready to go. A big man like James in one of those would be quite a sight.
Yeah. I liked that.
"Imagining something fun?"
"Something like that. Go deliver the fuel tank. While you're gone, I'll get Curtis's flamethrower ready."
"Make it small. Dad talks a big game, but… if he throws out his back at his age—"
"Mmm, no. I'm planning to make it larger than this one, actually."
I slipped the flamethrower off and held it out. James and Sarah both looked at me with a touch of suspicion.
"This is no time for jokes, Hyunwoo. My father—"
"I understand what you're worried about."
These people. It was not as if we had only been working together for a day or two.
Sarah, though, seemed to remember something. She turned to me and narrowed her eyes.
"Don't tell me… that cart, and the empty propane tanks…"
"Bingo."
"Ehhh…"
There was a philosophy called big-gun-big-ship doctrine. The idea that bigger and more beautiful was simply better. Flamethrowers were no different. Flame, too, was best when it was big and beautiful.
♫ ♬ ♪…
Humming through the gas mask hooked to his oxygen tank, Mr. Curtis stubbornly pushed the cart along with his own hands. He must have liked it a great deal.
"Dad, I'm telling you — if the heat gets too intense…"
"I heard you the first time. Honestly."
James stood beside him in a fire suit and gas mask of his own. Sarah and I covered their rear.
As a precaution, we had parked the Newman family in the bedrooms under the pretext of rest, with food, water, and warm blankets — effectively locking them in.
"This place is packed with flammable material. Are we sure this is the right call?"
We had even dragged Mr. Dietrich along into Sector D-10.
"I'll say it again — the monster isn't that fast. Even under gunfire, all it did was flinch. It never put up a real fight."
"But its bulk is big enough to plug this whole corridor?"
"Which is why I'm planning to burn every last bit of it."
"Told you, didn't I? This kid and I are on the same wavelength."
Curtis chuckled as he shoved the cart along, then flinched a little at the wet slap of a blood pool under the wheels.
"…It really is a mess down here."
James had clearly expected as much. He tightened his grip on the flamethrower and pushed forward with more force.
"Mr. Dietrich."
"…I'm ready."
He clutched the sling bag holding the adrenaline syringes we had scavenged by tearing open half the packages in the medical kit, and nodded. Of course, I might still have to stick him with one of those myself before this was over.
Squelch. Crack. Crrrack.
Maybe the larger group gave us away earlier. From the far end of the corridor, the sound of the Rat King beginning to stir reached us.
"…Oh-ho?"
"Hmm."
"Damn. Still ugly as hell the second time around."
The Omen family's nerves were clearly a cut above ordinary. Maybe it was the two of them who had actually seen a battlefield. First encounter or not, Curtis and James leveled their muzzles and settled into stance without a hitch.
The problem was Dietrich.
"Th-that hideous thing… what is it…?"
"A lifeform that feeds on corpses. They're not usually that big."
"Th-that's— why is something like that down here underground?"
In a world that already had parasites that made zombies, he was a little late to be shocked. As his body started to shake, I jammed an adrenaline syringe straight into him. Dietrich jumped.
"Ow!?"
"How about now?"
"We agreed no drug abuse!"
Seeing him work himself into a full-blown rage, I figured he was not about to faint. I gave him a quick grin, then checked on the two men at the front.
"Mr. Curtis?"
"Ready to spit fire on your signal."
"Mr. James."
"Whenever you are."
"Sarah."
"Ready."
I checked the remaining oxygen in each tank as well. Then I put a little distance between myself and the two men sealed tight in their fire suits, and drew a breath.
"Let's begin."
Hiss. Glug-glug.
Curtis's gloved hand wrenched the valve open hard. Gas vented once with a sharp rush, and oil came surging out in a heavy wave. As it slapped across the red mass of flesh and coated it evenly, the Rat King — startled by the slick, clinging sensation — flailed its arms in every direction.
"Ueeeh, eghrreeeulp…"
"Quit making that noise and drink up."
Wherever a maw yawned open, we adjusted the cart a little and force-fed it more oil. At last, when the entire front of the thing was black and thoroughly soaked—
"Ignite."
"Ignite!"
James brought the iron rod with the igniter fixed to its tip against the oil and mashed the button.
FWOOOOSH.
The sound of air being sucked into flame. In an instant the soot that had just formed was drawn into the fire, and the air around us turned scorching hot.
"Urgh!?"
"Kh…!"
"Ugh!"
Sarah, Dietrich, and I — the ones without fire suits — all let out short, strangled sounds. But the monster in front of us—
"…!!!!!!!!!!!!"
—could not even scream. With the oxygen ripped away in a heartbeat, it only thrashed its arms as it began to burn.
A vast ball of fire bloomed before our eyes.